Grand Theft Auto (Beaux' Stratagem)
by BabeOfAmerica
Summary: Intrigue! Romance! Adventure! Menage-A-Trios! The year is 1965, the hour is two o'clock in the morning, and Thomas Aimwell and Frank Archer Esquire go way back... Further than they care to admit.
1. Grand Theft Auto: PART ONE

_Grand Theft Auto_

An Archwell Fanfic

 _Aimwell—had to leave in a bit of a hurry. I might be in touch. Don't hate me._

 _\- Archer_

Aimwell sets the note on the table and takes a step back. It was scrawled hap-hazard on the back of a soggy paper napkin—the unfinished product of a drunken highwayman who's been in the same place for a day too long.

Aimwell's eyes scan the bar, the doorway, the empty booths. The jukebox has stopped playing. He compulsively pulls a dime out of his back pocket and puts on the first Everly Brother's song he finds. Still little wobbly from the mystery booze he's been at for the past two hours, he staggers toward the bartender. "Where'd he go?"

Boniface glances up from his tankard. "What's that?"

"The man—the only other man in the bar, he was sitting right there." Aimwell points to their corner table.

"Beats me, as the saying is," Boni says, pouring another shot for himself. A bit of cheap (if not home-brewed) whiskey sloshes onto the already sticky counter. Aimwell grabs the shot and throws it back without a second thought, then stumbles for the door.

He vaguely hears Boniface mumble, "'At's on your tab, as the saying is," but it's muffled by the distorted whirring of an old engine. In strange state of panic, Aimwell rushes into the gravel parking lot and draws his pistol.

"Archer!" He yells as a '59 Chevrolet screeches out of the Inn's parking lot. "Archer! Get back here—son of a—" He shoots twice in the general vicinity of the car's wheels and misses. "THAT'S MY CAR!" The weapon falls to his side. "That's my fucking car!" Aimwell angrily kicks up some gravel before finding a seat on the curb. " _My_ car—mine…" He always was a bit of a pouty drunk. He'd be the first to admit it.

 _Mine mine mine my car mine,_ he thinks, even though that wasn't entirely true. The double A's were so financially bound to each other it was hard to make out one's funds from another's.

"Where'd the other one go?" slurs a voice from behind him.

Aimwell turns to find a man named Sullen slumped in the doorway. "Why would I care? Dick stole my car," Aimwell mumbles, struggling to form a cohesive second thought beyond the fact that his car is now M.I.A.

"Why don't you call the cops?" Sullen asks. "Might track him down."

Even in his state of drunken panic, Aimwell knows damn well he can't call the cops. Cops mean licenses and registrations and paperwork and probably jail for the both of them.

"Don't got a phone," Aimwell replies.

"The station's half a mile down the way."

"You think I could walk a straight line for a half a minute, let alone half a mile?"

Sullen sulks in the shadow of the doorway. "Humph." He sips from his flask for a while. "Why'd he ditch?"

"Why the hell would I be screaming after him if I knew why the hell he ditched, saucebox?"

"You must have some notion, friend—"

"I have a notion to floor you if you don't go inside and find yourself a dram, friend." Aimwell turns from Sullen determinedly and fixes his eyes on the road.

"As you like," Sullen murmurs before slinking back into Boniface's bar.

Aimwell's about to turn in for the night when he sees what he thinks to be a motorcyclist's headlight in the distance. As it comes closer, he finds it's just a car with one of its light's burnt out. And that's when he sees that it is, in fact, his '59 Chevrolet.

Archer pulls into the parking lot a great deal slower than when he was pulling out (pun intended), as though he'd been driving five below all the way back to Aimwell—as though he had nothing better to do than leave him lolling about Boniface's alone at two in the morning.

As Archer steps from the parked car, Aimwell's anger surges anew. He draws his pistol instinctively, pointing it at Archer.

"Whoa!" Archer catapults over the hood of the car, ducking to avoid the barrel of the gun. "Whoa whoa whoa buddy old pal—"

"Don't 'buddy pal' me, bozo," Aimwell spits. "What was that note? Why? Where were you? What were you—?"

"None of your goddamn business, mom," Archer laughs acidically.

"I think I have a right to know if—"

"It's nothing important, Jesus Christ, can we just go inside?"

"But—but I—"

"Please?" Archer sticks his head up cautiously from behind the car, pouting like a lost puppy.

Aimwell sighs and stows his gun away. "Mkay."

Archer tries to help Aimwell walk steadily, an aid which Aimwell refuses stubbornly.

"Stole my car," Aimwell mutters as they find their way into the bar.

Then again, Archer steals an awful lot of things.


	2. Grand Theft Auto: PART TWO

_Grand Theft Auto: PART TWO_

An Archwell Fanfic

You're probably asking yourself: "Where's the sex already, goddammit?"

Patience, young Jedi[1]. I'm getting there.

There's something you ought to know about Thomas Aimwell and Francis Archer before I go any further—before I even address the letter that Archer left poor Aimwell back in Selmer. Now, back in the day, the double-A's were army men fighting in the Korean War alongside their trusted friend, ally, and superior: Captain Charles Freeman.

Even the General said Freeman was the best shot they'd seen in over a decade. Every man in the battalion knew the story of when Freeman saved a young Private's life when he shot a six-foot python at the foot of a mountain from the top of the very same ridge. The poor Private couldn't have made any sudden movements, lest the snake bite and poison him. Thanks to Freeman, he was alive and kicking.

Young Aimwell had always admired Freeman, so he couldn't refuse when Freeman invited him and his pal Archer to the top of a small mountain to practice some sharp shooting.

It was twilight, late in the summer of '51, when they made the trek up the ridge. An old path wound the circumference of the mountain. The fading sunlight lit their way as evening fog rolled down the foothills.

It seemed a pleasant, quiet scene. Almost…

 _too_ quiet.

When they reached their destination, they dropped their bags and began assembling their weapons.

"You ever done this before?" Freeman inquired of Aimwell.

Aimwell shook his head sheepishly. "I mean, I've shot a gun before—obviously—I've never even tried sniping."

"Nothin' to it," Freeman said. "What about you, Archer?"

Archer laughed facetiously. "Please."

Freeman shrugged. "Aimwell, let's see what you've got."

Aimwell crouched beside a tripod and put his eye to the lens, combing the treetops for anything that moved. "I see something!" he exclaimed after a few minutes. "I think it's a gray squirrel."

Freeman kneeled next to him excitedly. "Great! Now here's the key…" Freeman placed his hand gently on top of Aimwell's, which was resting on the trigger. "Relax. You're carrying too much tension in your shoulders, it'll ruin the shot." With his free hand, Freeman eased Aimwell's shoulders to where they were resting. "That's better. Lower your head a bit, that's it. You're looking with your dominant eye, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Aimwell murmured.

"Good. That's the key. Are you relaxed?"

"Yes."

"I thought you said being relaxed was the key," Archer interrupted from behind. "You know you can only have one key, right? That's, like, the rule."

"Whenever you're ready," Freeman told Aimwell.

Aimwell fired. After a moment, he hopped up. "I think I got it!"

"Ah, well done! And on the first try, too," commended Freeman. "Archer, you're next?"

Archer shook his head. "Thank you, Captain, but I'll have to pass."

Aimwell shot him a look.

"What?" Archer said.

"Why won't you shoot?"

"It's all the same to me, really," Freeman drawled, drawing a cigarette from his box of Marlboros. "Shoot or don't shoot." He lit it swiftly with a match. "Sun'll be gone soon, anyhow." He took a long drag, and then passed it to Archer.

Archer took the cigarette with no complaint, and lit his own and one for Aimwell from the burning embers.

The three men stood in silence for a while, watching the sun sink below the horizon.

"As much as I love smoking," Archer mused, "It does leave me feeling a little thirsty."

Aimwell gave him a sidelong glance and pulled a flask from his back pocket.

"Aimwell, my dear, you've read my mind!"

"Don't I always?"

Freeman chuckled and drew his own flask from his jacket. "Cheers, gents."

"Cheers!" the A's agreed.

The musings of the next few hours were extensive and of a wide array, and to recount them all would take an age and a half. All you need to know is that they drank; they smoked, and drank some more until all three were shamelessly wasted, singing an old favorite of Archer's—something about if the ocean, whiskey, and ducks, et cetera.

" _So I'll stick to wild women and just get fucked up!_ " sang the trio.

Aimwell giggled uncontrollably and took another swig from his flask. "Oh, golly," he mused, shaking his head.

"You ever been with a woman before, Tom?" Archer asked out of the blue.

Aimwell's eyes grew wide. "Who's askin'?"

"I'm askin'," Archer laughed.

Aimwell scoffed. "What, do you take me for a Catholic?"

"Out with it!" Freeman shoved him playfully in the shoulder.

Aimwell shrugged. "Well—not, you know, technically speaking—"

"What do you mean, technically speaking?" Freeman asked.

"Well—you know—I mean, yeah, kinda, just never, you know… _there_."

Archer burst out laughing, gasping for breath between phrases. "You mean to say—you never even—?"

"Like I said, not technically talking, it's just, like—"

"I'll stand up for you, friend, fear not," Freeman exclaimed. "Archer, I'd be the first to say that to go about the natural order of things _there_ ain't as nice as other places, eh?"

Archer nodded, considering. "Six one way, half dozen to the other."

"There, now," Aimwell exclaimed. "Something we can all agree on."

Archer smirked. "I think we can all agree on quite a few things," he said, low enough so that only Aimwell could hear.

Freeman yawned. "Gotta piss, be back in a few," he slurred, then stumbled into the woods.

"Don't fall off the mountain!" Archer hollered.

"Trying my best!" Freeman's voice carried.

Archer took a wandering glance in Aimwell's direction. He studied his face closely in the pale light for a moment—though perhaps it was for more than a moment, as moments tend to pass slower when one is inebriated.

Aimwell peeked back at Archer. "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing," Archer sneered.

"No, what?" Aimwell demanded.

Archer shrugged. "Come here."

"Huh?"

"Come here."

Aimwell shuffled toward Archer and took a seat next to him, bringing his knees up to keep himself steady.

"I'm here," he mumbled. Their shoulders brushed.

"Put out your cigarette, please," Archer said quietly.

Aimwell did as he was told. "There."

Archer nodded. "That'll make this a little easier."

"Make what—?"

Archer kissed him once, softly, and waited. His warm, damp hands rested on Aimwell's neck. They were close. If there was daylight, he could've counted every freckle on Aimwell's razor sharp cheekbones. He could hear Aimwell's heart beating in his chest, taste the smoke on his breath. His lips were chapped.

Archer waited.

And then Aimwell kissed him back.

Archer's hands were shaking, but before he knew it, his fingers were tangled in Aimwell's well-cut hair. Aimwell had one hand on his chest and another on his neck as their kissing went from gentle to forceful to ravenous in mere minutes.

Archer was just contemplating taking Aimwell's jacket off of him when he heard the crunching of leaves. He and Aimwell were frozen by fear as they turned and saw Captain Charles Freeman smoking a cigarette by a pine tree.

"Captain, I can explain—" Archer began.

"Oh, don't mind me," Freeman said. He grinned and winked. "As you were, gentlemen."

* * *

[1] If you're DJ, you probably don't understand this reference because you probably haven't seen Star Wars yet.


	3. Grand Theft Auto: PART THREE

_Grand Theft Auto: PART THREE_

An Archwell Fanfic

Now, I don't know about you, but the number one question on my mind tonight is: Which of you jades do I have to pay off to get me some "Not Your Father's Rootbeer"?

Secondarily, of course, is: Where in the world did Archer disappear to when he ditched Boniface's?

To answer your pending question, first I'll say this: Clear on the other side of Selmer is a lovely little dive known as Hounslow's Bar and Inn[1]. It's in fierce competition with Boniface's—the beer's marginally tastier, but the food's worse than Asian City in summer. Pick your poison.

I'll also say: An old friend of ours arrived in town earlier that evening and was, at the moment of Archer's departure, drinking himself senseless.

You'll remember that Aimwell was doing the same—as was Archer, in theory, but Archer had a plan to hatch, and, were he inebriated, might not have executed it so swimmingly. Archer told Boniface to bring him ginger ale that evening as opposed to booze, and—when the clock had struck two—Archer was out in a flash.

 _Aimwell—had to leave in a bit of a hurry. I might be in touch. Don't hate me._

 _\- Archer_

Archer raced down the poorly kept town roads in Aimwell's car, praying to a theoretical God that Freeman hadn't left Hounslow's yet—or worse, Tennessee.

When he pulled into the parking lot, he heard a few rowdy voices behind the doors of the bar. He put the keys to the '59 Chevrolet in the inside pocket of his blazer and hurried in.

The floor was a bit sticky to walk on and the air smelled of tobacco and blue-collar workers. The rusty red walls soaked up what little candlelight that burned in the lanterns scattered around the establishment.

"Ah, Martin, old friend, what brings you to Selmer?"

"Hounslow, your memory's rubbish—it's Frank, remember?"

"Frank, old friend! What brings you to Selmer?" Hounslow replied warmly.

Archer sighed impatiently. Despite the hour, he was more buzzed than a bug on an electric wire. "Has a tall, dark haired man been in your bar this evening?"

Hounslow scratched his head. "Hm. Who's to say? I've been a bit preoccupied servin' all these fine folks, see, and…"

Archer rolled his eyes and took off in the opposite direction. He spotted Freeman at a corner table with short glasses of brandy strewn about him.

Archer paused briefly before approaching him. He seemed so much older than the last time he'd encountered him. Then again, that could've been the light, or the late hour, or any number of things. Freeman wasn't asleep, somehow. Instead, he sat with relatively good posture for his circumstance, staring directly ahead of him.

"Good evening, Captain." Archer saluted drearily.

Freeman turned his head slowly. "Thought for a while there that you weren't gonna show." He took a gulp of his seventh brandy, swished the liquor, and swallowed hard. "Can I buy you drink?"

"No, thank you."

"Sit your ass down, soldier—Mr. Hounslow!" he called.

Hounslow peeked around the corner. "What'll it be, Captain?"

"Two shots of your finest whiskey on my tab, Mr. Hounslow."

Hounslow nodded and dashed off.

"You didn't have to—" started Archer.

"Fear not, friend, they're for my benefit." He threw back the rest of his brandy and sighed heavily.

Archer took a seat across from Freeman. "I'll admit, your letter had me in a bit of a panic."

"Does Aimwell know I'm in town?"

"No."

"And why not?"

"Because I say so." Archer fixed Freeman with an even gaze. "Aimwell stays where he is, the last thing wants or needs is a visit from _you_ , Freeman, is that clear?"

Freeman stared back. "I see we've found ourselves on the same page, Mr. Archer."

"As do I."

"Hounslow!" Freeman called. He appeared in a moment. "Scratch that last."

"Sure thing, Captain," Hounslow nodded approvingly and marched off.

Freeman stood up, dusted himself off, and started off in the direction of his chamber. "Follow me if you please, Mr. Archer."

Archer helped him to the first landing and into his room. Freeman held his liquor much better than Aimwell—then again, so did everybody.

Freeman's motel room was even more dimly lit than the bar, but Archer didn't get much of a chance to look around before he found himself against a wall with Freeman's tongue down his throat.

Appropriately alarmed, he slid from Freeman's grasp and whirled around to face him.

"What the hell was that?" Archer demanded.

Freeman breathed unevenly, his tired, drunken eyes scanning Archer's face. "What do you mean?"

"I said, what was that, why the hell did you—"

"I thought I made my intentions quite clear in my letter," he said presumptuously.

"In your—?" Archer stopped mid-sentence, thinking back to the note he'd received from Freeman the previous week. "You meant… _me_?"

"Who else?" Freeman smirked, advancing.

"I thought—"

"What? What did you think, Mr. Archer?"

Archer took another step toward the door. "Aimwell."

Freeman chuckled. "Aimwell? He's a child. You, on the other hand…" He looked Archer up and down shamelessly.

"I'm sorry." Archer took a steady breath. "I am sorry, but you'll have to—"

"Archer," Freeman interrupted suddenly, "if you thought I was referring to Aimwell in my note, why are you here?"

"I don't—"

"Out with it!"

"None of your goddamn business."

"You're in love with him, aren't you?" Freeman bombarded him. "Jesus Christ, and you thought I invited you here to—"

"To duke it out for the right to pursue him?" Archer finished. "So what if I did?"

"Then you're a fool." Freeman turned away from him, grabbing a bottle of wine off the dresser. "I may not have any weaknesses for Aimwell," Freeman muttered, "but Lord knows he'll confess them for me."

Archer looked him square in the eye. "We'll see about that." He stormed out the door and practically flew down the flight of stairs and into the bar, where he grabbed his blazer off the back of his chair and headed out. He passed Bagshot and Hounslow on his way, who were having a yell-fest behind the bar.

"I LOVED HER!" Hounslow cried.

"SHE CHOSE ME, YOU WORTHLESS WENCH!"

As Archer started up the car, he heard a gunshot from within the bar. He didn't want to know which of the ex-thieves had just bit the dust, but something told him it wasn't Bagshot.

* * *

[1] Please be aware that Hounslow comes from a long line of entrepreneurs, and so started his own business after the fashion of the man he most admired: William Boniface.


	4. Grand Theft Auto: THE FINAL CHAPTER

_Grand Theft Auto: THE FINAL CHAPTER_

An Archwell Fanfic

 _Aimwell—had to leave in a bit of a hurry. I might be in touch. Don't hate me._

 _\- Archer_

Archer stares at the note. He doesn't have particularly strong feelings about said note—it's a pretty standard note, as notes go, for him. Impersonal, incomplete, intriguing. Perhaps a little situationally melodramatic, but who's to say.

Though his business _is_ dubious at present—with higher stakes than he cares to admit—nothing pleases him more than seeing Aimwell in a panicked frenzy. Who's to say how far he would've gone to keep Freeman from pursuing Aimwell…

"Archer," Aimwell says, "You got some splainin' to do."

Archer looks left, then right. "Boni!" he calls over his shoulder, "bring me a dram."

Aimwell grabs his chin, forcing Archer to look him full in the face. Archer's piercing blue eyes meet Aimwell's hazel ones.

"I had to take care of something," Archer murmurs. "But I'm back now, isn't that enough?"

"No," Aimwell scoffs, "It most definitely is not enough, I—thought I wasn't going to see you again."

Archer smirks. "Don't tell me you're going soft on me."

Aimwell shoves him in the chest. "Shut up." He stumbles toward the door angrily. Archer sees that, before he can get outside, none other than Cherry Boniface blocks his pathway of departure—breasts out full-force, face smeared with inch-thick makeup. She whispers something in Aimwell's ear, to which he can only roll his eyes, look her dead in the face and reply, "Bitch please," before storming out. Cherry scoffs, shoots a wandering glance in Archer's direction, and stomps up the stairs.

Archer contemplates following Aimwell outside. The last thing he wants at the moment is to have this conversation.

 _It needs to be done_ , he realizes, and slowly follows Aimwell out into the parking lot.

Archer doesn't see Aimwell immediately when he steps out of the swinging bar doors.

"Tom?" he calls wearily, wishing he were drunk. The car was still there—a good sign. "Thomas Aimwell, if you don't show your face this second, I'll—"

"You'll _what_?" calls a voice from around the corner. "Take off without warning, leave me stranded and drunk at two o'clock in the morning?"

"I was going to say I'll call your mother," Archer says, meandering around the side of the building, "but then I reminded myself that you are, in fact, a grown man."

"So I am." Aimwell sits on the curb, smoking a cigarette for the first time in years. "Though I might not say the same for you, asshole."

"I'm here now, aren't I?" Archer says, taking a seat next to Aimwell.

Aimwell nods, taking a long drag. "I'm so drunk," he mumbles. "You're not drunk."

"No, I'm not."

"For once," he laughs, and then pauses. "Are you mad at me?"

Archer furrows his brow. "Why would I be mad at you?"

"Maybe you were mad at me and that's why you left."

"I wasn't gone for long."

"You could've been."

"But I wasn't."

"But you _could've_ —"

"Are you in love with Charles Freeman?"

Aimwell drops his cigarette. "Excuse me?"

"Just answer the question." Archer can't—won't—look him in the eye. He wants to (hazel ever was his favorite color since the day he met Aimwell), but he can't.

"What does this have to do with anything?"

Archer turns on him. "You know damn well what this has to do with—"

"Yes—I mean, obviously, but why now? What do you—?"

"Do you love him?"

Aimwell reaches into his pocket for another cigarette, which Archer allows him. "I haven't seen Freeman in years," he mutters, taking a disgustingly long drag.

"I saw him tonight," Archer finds himself saying.

Aimwell's eyes flicker in the pale moonlight. "And?"

"He wrote to me last week. Told me to meet him at Hounslow's—"

"And?" Aimwell demands.

"He—he said…" Archer struggles to find the words, then takes Aimwell's cigarette from him. He breathes in the fumes, exhales. His shoulders relax.

"He said—"

"Put out your cigarette."

Archer stops. "What?"

"I said, put out the cigarette."

Archer smothers the cigarette on the pavement as Aimwell's drunk, hazel eyes meet his blue ones.

"I don't want to know what Freeman said, and I don't care."

"Tom," Archer starts, "you don't have to…"

"And I know I'm drunk out of my mind right now but I promise you I mean this, and I'll mean it tomorrow when I'm hung-over, and every day after." Aimwell rubs his tired eyes. "I love you, Frank," he says quietly. "From the first moment we met, I loved you."

Archer stares at the ground. He wasn't expecting this. This—this was… "Tom," he says, "I… love you too. I'm sorry I left you, I shouldn't ever have—"

"You don't have to apologize," he exclaims, taking Archer's hands in his.

"No, I really do, I—I was being ridiculous—"

"Archer?" Aimwell takes his face in his hands. "Shut up and kiss me."


End file.
